Cook, and his Freddie
by Tahlia Mckinnon
Summary: A collection of oneshots encapsulating their warped, yet endearing friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Been watching the fourth series again, and Cook really is my favourite character of the Second Generation. I love writing from his perspective :) Please rate, review and enjoy x

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Cook presses the rum bottle to his lips. He's almost drunk Freddie's liquor cabinet dry; no matter that he doesn't like half the shit he has in there. These days, Cook is used to putting up with that bitter taste in his mouth.

He watches Freddie, half asleep in the battered, cigarette stained chair that has been the shed's loyal companion for all the years they've known each other. Sometimes Cook feels like that chair. Beaten and tattered, slumped into without much care and attention. Loose springs and rough patches. But something familiar, standing strong against their disintegrating normality. That fades into the background, but doesn't ever disappear.

"It's like we're going around in circles and making less sense with every lap," Freddie drawls lazily.

They've been talking about Effy for hours now. Well, Freddie's been talking, and Cook's shut up and listened, tight lipped. Freddie doesn't notice that with each mention of her name, Cook's knuckles turn white as he grips whatever bottle he's holding with a little more force than necessary.

Freddie doesn't notice much about Cook anymore. He doesn't spot the fresh battle scars, or the wry smile, or his new Ralph Lauren shirts. He doesn't laugh at his jokes, pull exasperated faces at his innuendos, or wince at his stupidity. His mind is elsewhere, and that bothers Cook. Because Freddie, he's supposed to be his brother. His boy. _His. _But he's becoming somebody else's, and he's struggling to care, which hurts. Because _care_ is all Cook has ever done for Freddie. The only thing he's ever done well.

"Then maybe you should stop running, mate." Cook sighs disinterestedly. If he's honest, he'd rather not talk about his best friend shacking up with the girl that he was never good enough too get. He'd rather not talk about it, because he's not sure which puts his teeth on edge more. Loosing Freddie, or never having Effy. Maybe he never really had either. But Cook doesn't dwell on that thought, because it stabs him in places he's spent a lifetime trying to numb.

Freddie sits up a little straighter, manages to open his eyes a little wider. "How did you get to be so brave, Cook?" he grumbles, not in admiration, but almost annoyance. At least, that's what it sounds like. Freddie's used to cleaning up Cook's mess, even JJ's. But he can't clean up his own, which kills him because that's always been his job. Mopping up the champion after the fight. And now Freddie needs mopping up, but there's nobody there to perform it, because the man that sits across the room from him is his opposition. Fighting the same fight. Drowning in the same sea. Swallowed by the same shark.

Freddie's mess is Cook's mess, and that's the way it's always been. But this time it's different, because it's not by choice.

Cook knows Freddie wants to protect her, take care of her. He's gentle and attentive, but lacks the backbone that Cook was born with. Cook makes shit happen. Freddie watches. Cook grabs life by the fucking balls and runs with it. Freddie sits waiting for it to arrive. And that thrills Cook, because that's the part of him that Effy will always remember - the part that Freddie could never provide. Never match. Never beat.

Freddie sparks up with shaking hands. They share the joint and share the silence, Cook never retaliating to Freddie's last question.

He doesn't have too. Because they both know the answer.

_He had no other choice. _


	2. Chapter 2

**So, the one shots aren't in any particular order, just read them as seperate little segments :) x

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"Tip top shit, that."  
"Gives me a migraine."  
"Stop being a pussy, Freddie."

As is custom, Freddie bites down on his inhibitions and follows Cook's orders. Follows Cook's lead. Just the way they work, always have.  
Cook makes the decisions, and Freddie trusts him to opt for the right ones. Which he doesn't. But who is Freddie to complain at two lines of free cocaine?

Even if it does send his eyeballs swivelling into the backs of their sockets.

Cook taps his nose, licks his fingers. Snorts and staggers from his kneeling position. Cuts Freddie a line, and he follows suit - a little more steady on his feet.

"Alright?" Cook asks, slapping him on the chest and slinging a burly arm around Freddie's sagging shoulders. It's not really a question, more of an overly enthusiastic reassurance. Freddie feels resentment at his tone, which he knows he shouldn't. Cook's intentions are sincere. After all, it must kill him just as much to watch Effy straddling that blonde boy by the bar - all giggles and hair twiddles, short skirt and stockings.

But to Freddie, it's far more comforting placing the blame with his best friend. If he hadn't have shagged Effy, played into her hands - this wouldn't be a game and she wouldn't be a player and he wouldn't be the one losing. If Cook had stepped aside…

Well, if Cook had _ever _stepped aside and let Freddie lick at the limelight now and again, it might have taken him less than seventeen years to lose his virginity. Cook, of course, popped his cork at twelve. Always getting their first. Always beating him at something.

They make their way out of the pisser, and back onto the dance floor. The music drums the drugs further into Freddie's brain, and before he knows it - he's feeling jaws against his fists, fists against his jaws. Blonde, brunette, and fishnets.

Yelling. Screaming. Grabbing. Bleeding.

And then, out of the confusion, a sound far more familiar to his ears than his own voice. Cook's laugh. That thick, fruity, harsh little cackle that he can't help but crack a smile too in return.  
Pats on backs and ruffling of hair. How things always were, before Effy came between them.

See, that's what drew the line between them.  
What made James Cook and Frederick Mcclair so different.

Cook would always be there, unconditionally, ready to catch Freddie. But Freddie, every so often, let Cook fall. Just watched it happen.  
And part of him enjoyed it.

"Raging little bull, you are Freds." Cook winks at him, slumped against the wall. Passes him a cigarette. Freddie takes it.

But his lips are cracked, knuckles split open. Fresh air slamming against his bruises. All he can taste is blood, and it's making him queasy.

He's about to lose consciousness.

And just as he does, only one sound fills his ears. Only one vision fills his eyes.

The sound of Cook's breath against his ear, hands in his hair, face against his cheek.

_And it's all he needs to feel strong._


	3. Chapter 3

**They're arguing again.**

Anything can tip the scales these days. Sarcastic comments, bruised egos and vengeful competition.

That's what their friendship is now. And those are the people they've turned into.

The products that she's made them - a concoction of insane jealousy, bitter betrayal and torturous 'what if's' and 'what now's and complete confusion.

Freddie doesn't know who he is anymore. Cook never really knew, but for once he doesn't like the fact. Constantly proving themselves, and never truly knowing what they're proving.

Cook's still shagging Effy, and Freddie's still dying inside because of it. That's the only thing that remains the same between them.

With their testosterone levels sky high, and their hearts in trepidation, they've stopped fighting their feelings and started fighting each other.

**They're arguing again.**

"Same shit, different fucking day. It's so predictable, Cook."  
"And wha' are you complainin' for, eh? Where the fuck where you?"  
"Busy."  
"As per fucking usual."

Cook snorts, prods at the open wound above his eye. Doesn't feel the pain. No, Cook refuses too. Cook doesn't feel anything anymore. Or so he keeps telling himself.

"I'm not putting up with it anymore mate," Freddie sighs in frustration. He leans against the shed door, eyes wandering over the picture that hangs on the opposite wall.

Cook catches him looking. Just like a hawk, no subtle nuance passes through his radar. Freddie wishes he was as observant. Could suss people out the way Cook did. Could understand Effy the way Cook did.

"See that?" Cook grins, pointing at the picture with his unlit cigarette. "Happy days, man. Fucking happy days."

"Things change," Freddie bites back, but his conviction is slightly forced. "People change."

"Don't have too," Cook replies, cocking his head at an awkward angle, _sussing _Freddie out. It makes Freddie uncomfortable, how Cook is so wise to everything beneath the surface. "You wish you'd never met her. Just like JJ. Just like me. You wish this twisted shit would end, and we could go back to smoking spliff and causing trouble in peace."

"There was never any peace," Freddie snaps, clenching and unclenching his jaw. "Even before Effy."

_He remembers all the trouble, all the broken promises, all the empty holes that their friendship never seemed to fill._

Not all of that was Cook's fault, but he didn't exactly help. Freddie dwells on the negatives, forgetting how Cook cradled Freddie at his Mother's funeral. Was the only person who ever really listened. Talked him back into himself after hitting an obstacle.

_He forgets all the laughs, all the spontaneity, all the times when they'd slap each other's backs and feel reassured._

"You've always been the same," he continues. "Nothing's ever _simple_ with you, Cook. There's always something. Always some shit going down with some wanker. You just can't control yourself."

"Nah," Cook protests, shaking his head with hurt glazing over his eyes. "That ain't fair, Fredders. And you know it's not. She's poisoning you - you see that? She'll destroy you, Freddie. She'll make you think that all you've got left is each other. But you've got me." He takes a tentative step towards his best friend, tone almost pleading. "Right? You've got me."

Freddie considers it for a moment. Life without her. Back to normal.

But normal was empty, and Effy gave him something to hold onto. Even if that was wishful thinking. She gave hope to Freddie in a way that Cook never would be able too. She gave Freddie the hope that one day, he'd be able to stop shit happening. Stop the world from burning. Rid them both of fear.

So, Freddie composes himself.

"This has nothing to do with Effy. This is about us, Cook. Me and you. And it's over. I'm done."

**They're arguing again.**


End file.
